Confessions Bundle. Jo Leigh

fervently hoped. Mercy had made no secret of her infatuation with the dashing young naval officer visiting his aunts on leave. He had been at his aunts’ home in Barton for only a month, but in that time, he seemed to have quite captured Mercy’s fancy.

      “Mere acquaintances,” Miss Ethel confirmed firmly.

      No doubt the idea of their precious relative marrying a poor girl, no matter what her family background, gave them the vapors.

      “Miss Mercy was simply being her charming self, nothing more, I’m sure,” Miss Myrtle said. “And Adam is such a fine young man, anyone of any discernment would wish to enjoy his company.”

      Grace knew she intended that remark to be a rebuke, for Grace had not paid much attention to the young man. He had struck her as handsome, but little more, and rather too proud of himself. However, she calmly smiled her agreement.

      “He has arrived in Gibraltar safely, and is already quite a favorite of the wardroom,” Miss Myrtle continued.

      “Quite a favorite,” Miss Ethel repeated.

      “I’m sure he is. Now, I really must beg to be excused. This wind is so very cold!” Grace was shivering when she dipped them both a curtsy and turned to leave.

      “Good afternoon, Miss Barton,” Miss Myrtle called out cheerfully as Grace hurried on her way. “Try not to worry about the rent!”

      With that parting shot rankling in her bosom, Grace barely caught Miss Ethel’s “Afternoon!” as she crossed the square, for indeed, the breeze had picked up and was decidedly frigid.

      They would shout about the rent, just in case the whole village didn’t know of the Bartons’ circumstances, Grace reflected sourly. Well, she shouldn’t get annoyed about that. After all, everybody already knew they were not well off. There were few secrets in such a small place.

      Few changes in the daily routine. Few new faces to make life interesting…

      Not for the first time Grace tried to imagine leaving Barton-by-the-Fens, to begin again in a larger place, where no one knew who you were, or what difficulties you faced.

      Where no one cared about you, or gave you respect because your ancestors had been lords and masters there time out of mind.

      Grace sighed heavily. As always, her ruminations about leaving came to that point, and served to make her dread abandoning her home.

      Besides, she had Mercy to think of, and Mercy would sooner lose a limb than leave Barton. She had said so often enough.

      She said many things often enough, and emphatically enough that her feelings were an open book not only to her sister, but to the whole village, including, unfortunately, the Hurley twins.

      Why wasn’t Mercy more circumspect? Grace thought with an old, familiar frustration. Why couldn’t she learn to keep her own counsel? Why did she have to be so blatant in her admiration of Lieutenant Brown?

      Well, it would have been worse if she had expressed any admiration for the Hurleys’ darling nephew. They would have told her every time they met why it would be an unsuitable match, although the simple fact of the matter was that the Hurley girls didn’t like Grace.

      They never had, not since she was a small child. It had taken her some time to realize why: the Hurleys lived for reactions, and Grace didn’t give them any. She had always been quiet and rather shy and not given to showing how she felt.

      The Hurleys much preferred the type of response Grace’s sister gave them. Mercy was always emotional and sentimental, and their tales could move her to the heights of happiness or plunge her to the depths of despondency, seemingly within minutes.

      As Grace reached the far side of the village green, she noticed the usual gathering inside the blacksmith’s forge. No doubt they were discussing the future raise in the rents.

      At least she would not be alone in her dismay over the increase. While the villagers had supposed Sir Donald had every right to be proud of his mysterious knighthood, there had been much speculation as to how the money for the planned renovations was to be obtained. Now they had their answer.

      They were probably also discussing, again and with dissatisfaction, the labor Sir Donald had hired. He had imported carpenters and masons from London, and it was said the furniture was coming from there, too. Taken all in all, the villagers were in as disgruntled a frame of mind as Grace, she was sure.

      A black barouche turned down the main road and, recognizing its occupant, Grace quickly stepped back into the shadow of the butcher’s doorway, her basket clutched defensively to her chest. She had no wish to be seen by Sir Donald, any more than she wished to speak with him.

      Fortunately, he seemed far too immersed in looking every inch the country gentleman to be peering into doorways, his large, heavy-lidded dark eyes staring straight ahead, his carriage erect--although his posture couldn’t disguise his overly large stomach--his tall hat perched fashionably to one side on his round head, and an expression of haughty condescension on his fat features.

      Grace subdued a shudder, remembering again the precise moment during the Christmas service when she had realized Donald Franklin was watching her with an interest she did not appreciate in the slightest. At first, she had wondered what was wrong with her attire to warrant his scrutiny. Later, when he had waylaid her at the church door with some inane observation about the holidays and how things had changed since her grandfather’s time, it had slowly dawned upon her that he thought he was being charming.

      Why charming, and more importantly, why to her? What had been the meaning of that supercilious little smile, and that look in his watery eyes? The only answers that came to her struck her as a form of insult, and she had been loath to encounter him ever since.

      When he was safely gone, Grace stepped out of her hiding place, quickening her pace.

      Once she left the village, the wind picked up even more. The stone hedgerows provided some protection, and the trees would have done more, if they had been in full leaf. However, they were not and Grace realized the wind had veered from the east to the north. She glanced anxiously at the sky. As if she didn’t have enough to trouble her, the billowing clouds had grown darker and thicker, and it looked about to rain.

      Her old cloak provided scant protection. If she didn’t hurry, she would be not merely cold, but wet through before she could get home.

      Thinking it was a good thing the Hurleys couldn’t see her, Grace lifted her skirts, got a good grip on her basket, and disregarded any notion that it was unladylike to run.

      The handsome young man cursed and gingerly felt the gash on his forehead. When he looked at his fingers, squinting not just because the sky had grown darker, but also because he was having difficulty focusing, he saw blood. Not a lot, though, and he supposed it could have been worse. “I could’a been sober,” he mumbled with a wry smile.

      His bleary gaze traveled to the offending limb of the oak that loomed over the road. “Where did you come from, eh?” he demanded, only half in jest, because the branch had truly seemed to come from nowhere. He hadn’t noticed that he had entered a small wood, or that the road took a sudden dip there.

      “Maybe this is an enchanted forest,” he continued, his enunciation less than precise. “Ogres and trolls

       and Boffins, I shouldn’t wonder. No beautiful princesses to help out a poor traveler, though.”

      His smile disappeared, to be replaced with a bitter frown as he looked around for his horse. Or rather, the nag he had “borrowed” from some unsuspecting innkeeper. “I suppose Adrian would say that if I wasn’t drunk,” he muttered bitterly, “I would have seen the damn thing, and if I hadn’t cheated, Boffin wouldn’t be after me. And he’d be right. Again. Damn him to hell.”

      Forcing all thoughts of his half brother from his mind, he contemplated using his last handkerchief for a bandage, then decided against it. The cut was minor; no need to ruin a perfectly good handkerchief, even if it did need a washing. Instead, he picked up